“Well, I tole him I didn’t have enough money to even pay attention,” Russia continued. “Then he got more excited, like he was really enjoyin’ the way the crowd was watchin’ him. Said he was gonna throw me in jail and let me stay there till I rotted.”
“But then somebody mentioned that I’d probably find a way to burn down the jail. When Marshal Wilkens heared that, he nodded his fool head and let go o’ me. Tole me to git outta Rock Springs, and warned me never to set foot in his town again. And he— Well, he mighta been tryin’ to scare me, but he said he’d—um…”
“He said he’d what?” Santiago asked, his voice low.
“Well, keepin’ in mind that he was pro’bly bluffin’, he said if he ever catched me here again, he’d hang me.” She cringed, waiting for his reaction.
Santiago gritted his teeth. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me you’d been ordered not to come back here? And don’t say it was because I didn’t ask!”
She forced herself to remain calm, no easy task what with the flare of rage in Santiago’s eyes almost blinding her. “You said we was gonna backtrack to all the towns I been in, Zamora. Rock Springs is one of ’em. I figgered we’d jist breeze in and breeze out. Now when are you gonna ask around about Wirt so’s we can git on with all the breezin’?”
“I asked! It took you so damn long to bed down that ancient animal of yours that by the time you’d finished, I’d already learned Avery isn’t here! What in God’s name do you do with that ox anyway? Tuck him in and sing him a lullaby?”
“How’d you know?”
He’d asked the question sarcastically, never considering the possibility he’d hit on the truth. He rolled his eyes.
“So Wirt ain’t been here at all?”
“If he has, no one remembers. It could be that he stopped only briefly, realized you weren’t here, and left. Or maybe he hasn’t come here at all yet.”
“So what’ll we do? Wait fer him? We cain’t wait long, Zamora, or Marshal Corn Cob will—”
“We set out for Rosario tomorrow.” He picked out as much cat hair from his hat as he was able, slid it on, and stalked to the door.
“Where you goin’?”
“To that cafe for supper.”
“But I cain’t go there. Lots o’ folks’ll see me. I ain’t lookin’ to admortize the fact I’m here, y’know.”
“Advertise.”
“Whatever. Anyway, I think it’s best that we stay outta sight till we leave tomorrow.”
“We?” He opened the door. “I’m not the one who burned the hotel down, nor am I the one who will be hanged if I’m spotted. So I’m not the one who has to stay in the room and go hungry.”
“Mean is what you are, then! Harder’n a boiled cannonball! You’re worthlesser’n a dead possum tail, Zamora, and if I thought I could git away with it, I’d knock the damn tidwads outta you! Mean! Mean, mean, mean, mean!”
He looked straight into her eyes, momentarily captivated by the way her anger flashed through them. As much as he hated her, he had to admit she had irresistibly gorgeous eyes. “I have no idea what tidwads are, Russia, but I’ll thank you to leave mine alone. Have a nice evening.”
Her shouts of outrage echoing in his ears, he left the room.
* * *
Ignoring all the stares and whispers going on all around him in the small cafe, Santiago pushed his empty plate across the yellow-and-white-checkered tablecloth. The fabric reminded him of Russia’s blue-and-white gingham gown and the way it molded to the many curves of her body.
The sensual recollection made him remember her fear of him the morning he’d held her in his arms, touching her, wanting her. Had it really been feigned as he’d thought, or was it real? And if it was real, why—
The question froze unfinished in his mind. The same question that had been haunting him for days. Damn the wench for invading his thoughts! Damn her for getting to him the way she did! For making him smile when he didn’t want to! For making him listen to her when he was so hell-bent on being deaf, for making him break his oath of silence!
And most of all, damn her for making him keep forgetting to hate her.
Vowing to think of anything but her, he lit a cheroot and examined his surroundings. The cafe was clean and well patronized. Healthy green plants in copper pots hung from the ceiling, and multicolored posies in blue jars brightened every table. He refused to dwell on how much they looked like the ones Russia had picked while they traveled. After all, flowers were flowers, and not worth his attention. Instead, he concentrated on the smells of fresh coffee and good food that filled the air.
The fragrances made him think of how hungry Russia probably was.
He took a deep breath, hoping it would blow into his brain and sweep Russia out of it. It didn’t. Not only did her image remain, but the sound of her voice came to him as well.
There’s somethin’ more to this Santiago Zamora, and ain’t nobody gonna tell me there ain’t. Do y’know there’s some real nice stuff about him?
Nice stuff. Ah, hell, he cursed mentally. Who cared what the nice stuff was? It was probably something stupid, anyway. Something really meaningless. Something so completely ridiculous, it was a waste of time even wondering about it.
He wondered what it was.
He raised his gaze from the jar of flowers and saw a painting on the wall ahead of him. It was of a bird. A crimson one, just like the one in Russia’s absurd hat.
“Damn,” he whispered. He’d been thinking about the silly twit for the past ten minutes. Ten whole minutes of his life squandered.
A loud, collective gasp hit his ears. Something crashed to the floor. Knowing full well what he would see, he turned toward the entrance.
Russia Valentine. There she stood, her chin held so high he wondered if her neck hurt. At her feet lay the hatstand he knew she’d just knocked over. Regally, as if she were the Queen of Rock Springs, of Texas—of the whole damn world—she glided into the cafe, stopping at a table full of people and daring to pluck a daisy from their arrangement. Holding the flower in front of her nose, she made her way across the room.
He reminded himself to hate her, but even so, he had to give her credit. She was showing superb bravery by taking the risk of being seen by so many people. Then again, from what he knew about her eating habits, it didn’t much surprise him that she’d taken such a chance. It was more likely that she’d chosen to die by the noose instead of by slow starvation.
He inclined his head when she arrived at his table.
“Ain’t you got no manners, Zamora? You’re s’posed to stand up when a lady gits to the table.”
“Tell me when one arrives.”
Tapping her nails on the back of a chair, she gave him her meanest look. “I’m hungrier’n a woodpecker with a sore pecker, and here you are with a empty plate in front o’ you. Sittin’ here like you ain’t got a care in the world. Fergit about me, did you?”
He leaned back in his chair and pretended to flick a speck of lint off his black breeches. “Now that you mention it, you haven’t crossed my mind since I left the room.”
She wrinkled her freckled nose at him. “You’re the garlic on the breath of life, Zamora.”
He felt a flash of humor cross his face and quickly turned his head lest Russia see it. He hated the hoyden, yes, but her outrageous expressions amused the hell out of him. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll be arrested?” he asked, looking up at her.
The oh-so-slight smile on his lips caught her full attention. The smile softened his rugged features and flickered brightly in his coal-black eyes. It seemed to reach all the way to her heart, bringing her a warm, inner glow.
“Russia?”
When he said her name, every nerve in her body responded. His deep voice brimmed with richness. She thought of plush, earth-brown velvet again. And gold. Pure and sumptuous gold, too. She could even imagine herself lying in the thick velvet. And the little pieces of gold were raining down all over her.
Santiago watched a
s her blue-green eyes darkened. The sensual message he read in them pulled at his masculinity, making him remember the way she’d felt in his arms. All soft. All quivering.
She’d wanted him then. She still did. She could deny it for an eternity of eternities, but all the proof he needed smoldered in those beautiful eyes of hers.
In that instant, he knew that whatever strange fear it was she insisted she felt of him, whether it was real or not, he’d find a way around it.
Tonight he would have her. Tonight…
“Russia,” he said again, hearing the huskiness of his own voice, “aren’t you afraid you’ll be arrested?”
“What?” She blinked several times and finally succeeded in escaping the spell of his devastating sensuality. “I— No. I ain’t afraid.” She lowered her hand, smoothing her daisy across the butt of his Colt.
He looked down, saw what she was doing, and frowned. “Do you expect me to shoot the marshal if he comes for you?”
She stuck the daisy behind her ear and sat down. “Yes, but don’t kill him. I think he’s a real coward inside, Zamora, so you don’t gotta threaten him with death. A little nick on his earlobe oughta do the job. Jist be sure to warn me before you pull the trigger so’s I can turn my face away. I don’t know how much blood there is in a earlobe, but even if it’s only a drop, it’ll make me sick.”
She lifted her heavy mass of hair and dropped it so that it fell down the back of her chair, almost touching the floor. That accomplished, she folded her hands beneath her chin and batted her lashes at him.
Struggling not to smile at her unmitigated gall and obvious belief that he would do exactly as she told him to do, he rubbed his hand over his stubbled cheeks, hiding the beginning of a grin. “Russia, if the marshal comes for you, I can promise you that I won’t do a thing to stop him. You burned down the hotel, and he told you never to come back here again. Here you are, so—”
“You’re the one who was so hell-bent on comin’!”
“If you’d told me what happened here, I’d have figured out something else to do.”
Her shoulders slumped. “So you really won’t help me if the marshal comes?”
“I won’t lift so much as a finger.”
“I’ll hang.”
Actually, he didn’t think she would. He felt sure the marshal had only threatened the noose to keep her from returning to Rock Springs. “I’ve seen men hang before. It looks to be a quick death.”
She took a quivering breath. “I heared a story one time about a feller who was fixin’ to git hanged. His friend rided into town jist in time and shooted the rope in half. Then the man who was gonna git hanged jumped off the hangin’ contraption and rided off with his friend. You wouldn’t do that fer me, Zamora?”
He pretended to consider her question. “I’ve never shot a noose before. I’d probably miss. If I did, you’d still hang, and I’d more than likely hang right along with you.”
“You wouldn’t neither miss!” she yelled at him, oblivious of the stares her shout brought. “You could shoot the balls off a flea, and he wouldn’t never even know he’d been gelded!”
Caught off guard by her outlandish proclamation, he widened his eyes. He tried to resist the mirth rumbling inside him, but failed. It had been years since he’d heard the sound of his own laughter, but as it escaped him now, he was reminded of how good it felt.
“I ain’t never heared you laugh before,” Russia said.
“You laugh real nice, but it’s jist my damn luck to hear you laugh at my expense.”
“Maybe you won’t hang, Russia,” he said, one last chuckle slipping from him. “Maybe you’ll just go to jail.”
She cocked her head and nodded. “And you’ll come and break me out with dynamite, is that the plan?”
He shook his head.
“Then you’ll bring me a file baked in a cake.”
“I’ve never baked a cake in my life.”
“I might be locked up fer fifty years.”
“And for fifty years, the world will be safe.”
She started to argue further, but bit her tongue when a waitress approached the table.
“Will—will there be anything else, Mr.—Mr. Zamora?” the young girl stammered. Her hands shaking, she placed two covered plates in front of him.
He felt the tops of them, was satisfied that they were warm. “You did put double portions on the plates, didn’t you?”
She nodded, doing everything she could to avoid having to look him in the eye. “We—we even added a bit extra,” she blurted out nervously. “There’s probably enough food there for three people.”
He glanced at the plates again. Only Russia could eat so much food at one sitting. He slid them toward her. “I was going to bring this meal up to the room, where you could have eaten in safety. Now you’ve been seen by half the townspeople. Eat. And enjoy. After all, every person doomed to hang is entitled to one last good meal.”
She threw him a disgruntled look and removed the coverings from the plates. The sight of the generous helpings of food made her forget her risky situation. On one plate there was almost a whole fried chicken, mountains of fresh vegetables, and half a loaf of bread with butter dripping all over it. The other held a huge slice of moist cake with fluffy white icing. Her smile split her face. Preparing to eat, she reached for a fork and knocked over the jar of flowers.
Santiago shook his head as the water flowed over the table and the flowers fell to the floor. With a cheroot clenched between his teeth, he dug into his pocket, withdrew money, and held it out to the waitress. “The change is yours.”
She took a step backward and reached her arm way out to accept the money, the tips of her fingers barely touching it.
Russia swallowed a mouthful of food and took a moment to think about what she was seeing. The waitress was obviously terrified of Santiago. He’d done nothing but eat and try to pay for the food, and the girl was shivering with fear.
It irritated Russia. “Maybe he should throw the money to you,” she suggested to the waitress. “Lord only knows what kinda poison he’s got spread all over his hand. If it gits on you, you’ll pro’bly die.”
The girl’s face whitened before she leaned forward, snatched the money from Santiago’s hand, and scurried back toward the kitchen. Russia noticed the cluster of cafe employees waiting there for her. When the girl reached them, they put their arms around her. As if having served Santiago a meal had been a horrible ordeal, they lavished concern upon her before gently ushering her into the kitchen.
Russia looked at Santiago. “Now that they’re safely outta your sight, they’re pro’bly askin’ that girl if you threatened her in some sorta way. Maybe they’re even praisin’ her fer how brave she was by waitin’ on you.”
He shrugged.
The sound of loud whispering stole Russia’s attention. She turned back to the kitchen and saw that the cafe employees were now spying on Santiago from a crack in the kitchen door.
Her gaze returned to Santiago. His arms were folded across his chest; his face registered boredom. Her first thought was that he was totally unaffected by the situation.
But when she glanced into his eyes, her opinion changed. She saw no sign of the glitter of rage she was accustomed to seeing. There wasn’t even a spark of irritation in them.
But there was a glimmer. A somber, barely there flutter of light that made her think of heartache.
Her own eyes widened. Santiago was sad. The surprising realization hit her so suddenly, it was a moment before she could focus on the reasons for his pain.
She looked toward the kitchen again. The employees were still staring at him. Anger exploded inside her. Without a second’s worth of thought, she threw her napkin to the table, stood, and marched to the kitchen, yanking the door wide open.
Several people fell flat on their faces. The others retreated into the kitchen.
“Jist where the hell do you folks git off, treatin’ Zamora like that?” Russia shouted. “He didn’t
do nothin’ a’tall to none o’ you! He come in here to eat, not murder people! All’s you got to go on is what you’ve heared about him, and y’don’t doubt one word o’ none o’ them gory tales! Shameful’s what it is! See these bites?”
She pushed up the sleeve of her dress, revealing several ant stings. “Do y’think a cold-blooded killer would take the time to put prickly pear all over these here bites? That’s what Zamora done! He—”
“Miss Valentine.”
When she heard the familiar voice behind her, she felt her face drain of color. “Marshal,” she squeaked, her back still to him.
“I warned you against returning to Rock Springs.”
She raised a hand to her neck, her fingers closing around her throat. As slowly as she was able, she turned to face the tall and lanky lawman, Marshal Cobbett Wilkens. The expression in his small eyes told her he had unsavory plans for her. Her heart pounding, she threw a look of desperation toward Santiago’s table.
Her heart ceased to beat at all when she saw it was empty. Only his cheroot, still smoking in the ashtray, remained as evidence he’d even been there.
Marshal Wilkens grabbed her arm, then took a moment to glance around the cafe, satisfied to see that everyone was watching him. Throwing back his shoulders, he yanked Russia closer to him and felt a lurch of excitement when her lush breasts met his chest. “Will you come peacefully, or do I have to drag you?” he asked loudly. Smugness mingled with his growing desire as he heard murmurs of admiration coming from all around him.
“Either way I’ll git there, won’t I?”
“Don’t doubt it for a minute,” he replied, leading her out of the cafe and smiling and waving to the people they passed.
Russia decided he was enjoying the attention he was receiving because of her arrest. It seemed to her that arrogance oozed out of his every pore. “Y’know, Marshal Corn Cob,” she spat, “if you was to ever change your faith, it’d be on account o’ you no longer thought you was God.”
“Shut up!” He gave her arm another strong yank.
Russia ignored him and concentrated on trying to find Santiago. But dusk had fallen; a few stars were already twinkling in the darkening sky. It wasn’t easy for her to see, but it was imperative for her to try. Her gaze swept over every building lining the street. But she caught no sign of Santiago and wondered where he’d gone so quickly.
2a748f08-49ec-41d8-8e72-82e5bc151bc0-epub-67710b16-8d2a-4caa-be30-f5ebeb130f9c Page 10
